Chapter 53: The Price of Resignation

MATEO – POV

As every night, here I was again, praying after having a carnal dream about her. The sensation of the dream still burned on my skin, as if it had been real instead of a mere product of imagination—a sin committed just moments before opening my eyes. I woke abruptly, my heart racing, my breath ragged, my T-shirt soaked with sweat. The air in the room felt thick, hot, almost heavy. My hands trembled; there was still the impression of something that should not have been there… yet my body was convinced it had experienced it.

Lucía was leaning against the wall of the confessional. Her dress was hiked up to her waist, exposing the smooth, burning skin of her thighs. She was breathing fast, her lips slightly parted, while I held her firmly by the hips, pulling her toward me. There were no sacred words, no promises, no restraints—only the rhythmic movement of our bodies. Her fingers tangled in my hair, tugging with urgency. I spoke her name as if it were a prayer spoken in reverse, a sweet blasphemy. And she, between heavy breaths, called me “my Mateo,” and that single word, spoken by her, filled me with inner fire.

I could sense the scent of her skin, the heat she gave off, the way she clung to me as if her very existence depended on that instant. It was so real that when I opened my eyes, for a moment I thought I could still touch her.

But I found only the loneliness of my room—and the cross hanging above my bed.

I covered my face with my hands, shame washing over me, and fell to my knees beside the bed.

“Forgive me, Lord…” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Forgive me for everything my mind has imagined and my heart longs for…”

I stayed there, my forehead resting on the mattress, until my heartbeat finally began to slow. Then I stood, opened the drawer of the nightstand, and took out my black notebook. I opened it and wrote in tight, pressed handwriting:

“One more night. One more dream. The desire grows, and I fall apart a little more. Lucía… you are my torment, my thorn, and I feel that I am losing you.”

I had barely finished the last word when a loud knock echoed through the main door of the church. It wasn’t time for Mass, nor for visitors.

I went to the entrance, and when I opened it, the morning cold rushed in along with a man who filled the doorway with a heavy, threatening presence. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with tattoos climbing up his neck and disappearing beneath a worn leather jacket. His dark eyes looked like knives, and the half-smile on his face was anything but friendly.

“I’m looking for Lucía,” he said flatly, without even greeting me.

A knot formed in my stomach. Before I could respond, I heard footsteps in the side corridor. She appeared, and on her face I saw pallor, tension… and a painful recognition.

“Damián…” she whispered.

He stepped closer to her and, in a low voice dripping with venom, said, “I’ve been looking for you.”

His hand closed around Lucía’s arm with a grip that made my instinct push me to act.

“Let her go,” I said, forcing my voice to sound firm, though I knew it was more a warning than a plea.

Damián looked me up and down and let out a short, dry laugh.

“And who are you supposed to be? The savior of lost girls?” he mocked, his tone darkening. “Stay out of it, Father. This doesn’t concern you.”

Anger surged through me, but I was also aware that a fight would be a grave mistake. Still, I stepped forward, placing myself between them.

“You won’t take her by force.”

She looked at me then, and in that instant I understood that I could not save her. Her eyes were full of fear… but also resignation.

“Father Mateo…” she whispered, as if begging me not to make things worse. “It’s fine… I’ll go with him.”

I clenched my fists, fighting the urge to tear her from his hands. But I knew that any move could make everything worse. Damián yanked her toward the exit. Before stepping outside, he cast me a triumphant look, as if he believed he had claimed a prize.

When the door closed, the silence returned—but it was a thick silence, one that pressed against the skin. I remained motionless, staring at nothing, feeling as though I had lost something that had never truly been mine.

That afternoon, the words of the Mass left my lips in a muted tone. My eyes searched the faces in the wooden pews, but found only the emptiness she had left behind.

When I returned to my room, I turned on the desk lamp, opened the notebook, and wrote:

“Today they took her away. I feel a pressure in my chest that has nothing to do with desire, but with helplessness. I can do nothing but pray that he does not hurt her. Lord, give me the strength not to follow her… because I would. Today I confirmed that she is my weakness, and that my faith wavers when I look at her.”

I closed the notebook and slipped it back into the drawer, as if hiding it might also conceal the root of my torment. I stood still, my hands resting on the cold wood, feeling the echo of my own thoughts begin to suffocate me.

I remembered my first days at the seminary in Guadalajara. I was barely a boy, yet I never doubted my decision. I remember it clearly: the dawn filtering through the tall windows, the scent of incense clinging to every corridor, the rector’s deep voice repeating that “to serve God is to serve absolute truth.” I felt my life had a sacred purpose. It seemed impossible that anything in this world could ever pull me from that path.

For years, I lived certain that my vocation was unbreakable. I prayed with devotion, studied the Scriptures, helped those in need, and every sacrifice felt light compared to the greatness of the mission. There was no room for doubt… nor for temptation.

But now… now everything was different. Her mere presence was enough to ignite something I believed dead within me—something that should not exist. A desire so intense it frightens me, because it threatens to bring down the very foundations of who I am.

I walked to the window. Outside, the night was sealed shut, rain steadily striking the cobblestone streets of San Cristóbal, as if the sky itself were praying with me. And yet, I found no comfort.

I am afraid. Afraid that the next time she walks through that door, she will not find a priest in me… but a man. And if that happens, I don’t know if I will be able to turn back.

That night, I knelt before the cross. My lips repeated prayers I have known by heart since I was a child, but my heart… my heart beat with the certainty that perhaps my faith was about to be tested as never before.

And I… was no longer sure I would emerge victorious.